Origins Cycle: Genesis
by simsf
Summary: Before Justin and Alatus Stormblade set foot onto the world scene, Ulfric Stormcloak fought viciously for his country. This is his story, the story of how the Age of Turmoil began, and how many young souls gave their loves and lives to save a ruined realm.
1. The Winds of Change Arise

** Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak**

Ulfric and his grey stallion stood upon the top of the Pyre, the ancient tomb of Jarl William White, first jarl of Whiterun. His men waited eagerly for the battle soon to come. They were six hundred dismounted knights and skirmishers, as per his agreement with Balgruuf White. It was to be a battle between their best fighters, a brawl between Windhelm and Whiterun, a fight where Bear and Horse clashed. But Balgruuf's men numbered greater than Ulfric's, a thousand in total. _No matter,_ he thought. _The men of Eastmarch are made of sterner stuff than most._

"My Jarl," said a familiar voice behind him. He turned to see his closest bannerman, Lord Cruel-Sea, the master of Skyrim's navy and an old friend. "Balgruuf sends word that he is ready to begin." "Good," replied Ulfric. "Tell the men to gather their weapons and get ready to march. We'll eat the evening meal early and get ready to meet our foe on the Crimson Plains." Cruel-Sea nodded and ran off, sending squires away in all directions. Ulfric headed out to see the place he would be meeting the enemy host. "The Crimson Plains…" he said to himself in awe as the reason for the name became apparent. As the sun began to set, the field began to turn a deep, smooth crimson, as a result of some untold battle between gods long ago.

By the time Ulfric's men began to flow slowly out of the Pyre, Balgruuf's men were already closing in on them a league away. Both had brought out the greater part of their skirmisher forces, leaving the spearmen, cavalry, archers, and small group of remaining hedge knights and skirmishers behind. When his men had fallen in rank and raised their banners, Ulfric set out at a slow trot, letting his men slowly fall behind. Balgruuf's army was only half a mile by now. He could just make out the magnificent warhorse mounted by Balgruuf the Greater, who bore an equally splendorous silvery-white steel greatsword. Ulfric instantly remembered the sword's fame. The sword was called White Stallion, famed through the land for its legendary edge and accuracy. The armies drew within twenty feet of one another as he finished his speculating. Balgruuf raised his sword with a proud look on his face and called the charge. Ulfric pulled his own mighty blade, Frosted Fang from his back and charged with his six hundred knights and skirmishers following.

And so Bear and Stallion clashed, the warriors of each engaging one another in bloody fighting. Ulfric and Balgruuf drew nearer to one another, both glaring and sizing each other up. Balgruuf charged. The field darkened so he could only see himself, his foe, and the path which they clashed upon. Ulfric pulled his sword horizontally to the left, quick as a bolt of lightening, and parried Balgruuf's initial thrust. He feigned left, pulling quickly back to bring his sword right when Balgruuf fell for it. The Jarl of Whiterun managed to shift just in time to reduce the attack to a graze on his stomach. The two fought about a half-score more bouts before pulling back and circling one another. The field returned to Ulfric's vision. By now, most of the fighting had died down and many of the warriors were watching the Jarls dance, only taking a lazy blow at one another to feign combat in the now light red field.

The two combatants charged once more, prepping their swords for another swing. They drew nearer and nearer… and it was done. Ulfric had a gash on his side, and his horse was going wild and making strong attempts to throw its rider off. Balgruuf was on the ground, breathing heavily with a deep cut in his hip. Ulfric's horse reared and he fell off. The two combatants arose once again, Balgruuf's larger sword on the ground and his thin-bladed longsword drawn. White had a hand on his wound and his grip on his blade was weakening. Ulfric raised his own greatsword, trying to ignore the searing pain in his side from the cut. "Yield," Ulfric said. Balgruuf held his stance for a moment. He did not let go, but instead prepared himself for a charge. Ulfric was a step ahead as he charged forth, bringing all his force down with his blade in one savage blow as Balgruuf raised his longsword in defense.

Frosted Fang sheared through Balgruuf's longsword, cutting it almost perfectly in half and sending Balgruuf to the ground three feet away with a new gash going from his shoulder to his stomach. Ulfric stood over his defeated enemy. "Yield, Balgruuf. Give me back my land." "Very well, Stormcloak. I'll sign the treaty and withdraw my men from that tract of land," said Balgruuf, weak of voice and coughing.

And so the treaties were signed, Balgruuf was returned to his camp and Ulfric to his. While they treated his wounds, a courier came in. He was brown of hair and tan of skin, probably of Cyrodiil. The man stood at six feet, most likely, with a stubble of a beard. Ulfric recognized him to be Tiberius, Torygg's royal courier. "I've a summons for you from the king himself," said the Imperial courier. "He asks that you come to attend a court with him." Ulfric nodded as Chella, a medical expert, dressed his wound. He was told that the burning of a newly dressed wound was a sign of healing and that fire had a great magic in it, but right now it just felt like a mudcrab trying to rip his flesh off. "I'll head to Solitude, then. Tell him I'll be there within a month." He looked to lord Cruel-Sea, who had been there to speak with Ulfric when the dressing of his wounds was done. "I want you to lead my army back. I'll take twenty horsemen as a guard and Chella," he gestured to the blonde maiden next to him, "-to Solitude. We break apart at dawn. Tell Erienne my return has been delayed." His friend nodded, seeming a bit reluctant to carry out the order. Ulfric laid himself back and allowed Chella to finish up on his wounds.

The next day, Ulfric Stormcloak and twenty horsemen set out for Solitude, the King's City. Ulfric did not feel the excitement of his men; he felt as if a grim future awaited him, as if his life would never be the same.


	2. Children of the Blade, Cloak, and Law

**RAHVIN STORMCLOAK**

Rahvin sighed with content. The day was warm and beautiful for Windhelm. The sun shined over the large city, glittering off the ice and snow. Rahvin and his brothers sat upon the top of the highest wall, looking at the countryside. This was the day that the Stormblades came to visit for the annual Eastern Sentinel Festival (the celebration held to acknowledge the Houses who watched over Skyrim and guarded them from the Dunmer for many years and stalled the enemy while the lords of Skyrim gathered their armies), along with the Law-Givers. Five-year-old Erienne, their little sister, would be excited, since Alatus Stormblade and Aloeseth and Jayne Law-Giver would arive. She had secretly shared that she 'loved' both Alatus _and_ Aloeseth, but she couldn't choose and thought Justin Stormblade was more handsome anyways. Rahvin chuckled at the thought.

"So brothers," said Roran, standing, "any thoughts on Ariel Law-Giver?" Rahvin shook his head while Hirad nodded and grinned. "She's too stuck-up. You know I'm betrothed to Jarl Skald Felgeif's daughter. Not that I have any problem with her," said Rahvin. Roran smirked. "Right, father gave you to Dawnstar so we could have the freedom of choosing our wives. You're an unlucky bastard, Rahvin." "Not when my betrothed is as beautiful as Maven Felgeif," replied Rahvin with a smile.

Rahvin chuckled. He knew his loving brother meant well, as he and Hirad always did. "Children," said a kind voice behind them. They turned to see their mother, Lady Erienne Stormcloak. The sight of her always filled Rahvin with a sense of safety and joy. They stood and paid their respects to their benevolent mother. "It is time. Come down, the Stormblades are here," she finished. They followed her into the palace and down the long staircases into the throne room, where they were joined by Erienne, their sister. His young sister was dressed in a lovely golden gown with a red ribbon tied around her head, from scalp to the top of her head. Her blue eyes glittered and her brown hair reflected the light. They walked out into the courtyard, where a carriage train was entering. First, out stepped Lord William Stormblade, second of his name and lord of Banner's Top. Then Lady Catelyn Stormblade, his wife, followed. Out jumped the excitable Alatus and Justin, who were racing to see their friends after so long. First, the families greeted each other, with William giving a quick inquiry as to when Ulfric would be returning. Lady Erienne whispered something and he nodded. The adults nodded and released the children before going in. Alatus stood where he was, most likely feeling awkward to be alone with Erienne. Justin spoke with Roran and Hirad, asking if they wanted to go to the stadium and practice with swords. Rahvin was ignored by the boy, as always. _The ass ignores even his own brother,_ Rahvin thought to himself. As the three walked towards the small stadium, Rahvin called out, "Erienne, Alatus, come. We're going to sword training." The two eagerly followed. Rahvin thought he saw Justin give him a dirty look and turn away when he turned back around.

Later in the day, Hirad and Justin were doing their usual bouts, quick and skillful, while Roran and Rahvin taught Alatus how to play chess when a steward entered the training ground. "Lady Law-Giver has arrived, and their family awaits you in the courtyard. Your lady mother commands that you come," said the portley man. Rahvin and Roran put away the chess pieces as Erienne and Alatus eagerly ran to greet the last patron family for the Eastern Sentinel Festival. Justin approached Rahvin. "I don't remember asking Alatus to come myself, Rahvin," the lordling said to him. Rahvin chuckled. "That's why I did, Justin. And yes," he replied. Justin seemed a bit confused. "Yes, I will duel you. That's what you were about to ask, is it not?" The Stormblade heir's mouth dropped, along with Roran and Hirad, who had finished picking up the swords and gone to help Roran and Rahvin pick up the chess board. "Children!" called the steward as he impatiently gestured for them to come. They did.

The Law-Givers waited patiently in the courtyard as the families gathered. They paid the normal respects and the same thing happened- the whispering, the unreadable gestures, and the suspicious quick release of the children. Roran, Hirad, and Justin looked at Rahvin. "Do you wish to duel now, Justin?" asked Rahvin. Justin nodded and they worldessly walked to the stadium, the younger ones (and Ariel) following.

The opposing fighters stood at opposite ends of the stadium. Rahvin, even being the clever boy he was, could not understand the feelings of this person. _Justin is a tornado,_ he thought, _he is wild and unpredictable. His first thought when he comes to an obstacle is to destroy it._ And just then, it started. Justin was on him in seconds, launching rapid attacks. Rahvin could barely parry or block them, let alone strike back. He searched frantically for an opening. It seemed impossible. Justin looked somehow cautious _and_ brave at the same time. He seemed to never leave an opening in his defenses when he struck. Rahvin sidestepped a blow and went to Justin's left flank and almost landed a succesful strike. Justin parried and kicked him. Rahvin rolled back and tried to quickly stand, wooden sword still in hand. He swung desperately to no avail. Justin blocked it lazily. He put the end of his blade to Rahvin's throat. "Yield," said Justin. _An opening!_ Rahvin rolled his blade so as to swat Justin's sword to Rahvin's right and he tackled Justin, knocking him down. Rahvin kept his foot down of Justin's wrist, blade uplifted. He heard gasps from the spectators, but all that mattered was focusing. "Yield, Justin," said Rahvin with feigned confidence. Justin nodded. Rahvin had won.


	3. The Omens of War

_**JARL ULFRIC STORMCLOAK**_

Ulfric stood upon a stony ground. All around him stretched the endless forests and mountains of Sovngarde. The sky was colored with the billions of stars that made up Aetherius. Ulfric looked at the heavens with wonder.

"Ulfric," said a somewhat familiar voice infront of the jarl. Ulfric turned his gaze quickly to see a face he hadn't seen in more than five years; the Bear of Eastmarch, Undveld Stormcloak, first of his name and Ulfric's father. "F-…" Ulfric faltered a moment. "You're here… is it truly you?" he finished. Undveld nodded. "Aye, my son, it is me," he said, embracing his son. Ulfric returned the embrace and wept slightly. His father let go. "My son, your life is coming to is height. You are being called by the king for a special reason. And let me warn you, he does not want to hand you any position or palace." Ulfric seemed curious. "Then what could he want from me, Lord Undveld?" the younger lord asked. Undveld gives his son a sad smile. "It is not my place to tell you that, my son. But I can help you," he says solemnly, his eyes on his son's face. Ulfric stands under his father's stare, ready to listen. "In three days, you will receive grave news regarding Jarl Silverblood. The Breton rebels known as the Forsworn have taken control of Markarth and the Reach."

Ulfric dropped to his knees, fearing for his friend's life. As children, he and Thongvor Silver-Blood had been close friends, especially when Silver-Blood had been sent to Windhelm as a steward to Undveld. And he had been the first to gather his swords when Thongvor vied for the throne of Markarth. Now he had been dethroned by a bunch of Breton bastards and bandits. "Is he alive?" asked Ulfric. "Aye," replied his father, whose solemn eyes communicated sadness at his son's predicament. "But he will not be the Jarl when you take Markarth back. Igmund Stone-Hilt will, and you can not count on _his_ support."

Ulfric stood and nodded. "So I am guessing I must rally the Clans and Houses of the Reach to take the capitol back. Is that so?" he asked his serious father, who nodded. "Go to Karthwasten. They are mounting a defense there and your leadership will help drive back the Forsworn," he finished. "And after that?" asked the younger Bear. Undveld stared at him, an eyebrow raised. "Is it not obvious? When you can leave Markarth you must go to Solitude. And bring your army with you. That shall be the beginning of the revolution."

Ulfric's eyes widened. "Revolution? You mean another war is coming?" he asked. His father gave him a sad smile. "Aye, my son. And you shall lead it." Ulfric shook his head and tried to protest, but his father turned and walked into gathering mists. "Father!" he shouted out. Undveld turned and smiled at his son. "I will see you in Sovngarde, Ulfric."

Ulfric woke with a start. His knights were breaking camp. They put up the bedrolls and put out the fires, letting Ulfric sleep more for the long ride that would follow. Chella was nearby, picking her bedroll up, and the horses were all saddled. Ulfric got up from his own bedroll, not ceasing movement to even rub his eyes. "How long have you all been awake?" he asked them. Ser William Free-Winter turned and said, "A few hours at most, m'lord. The stew is still on the spit, if you want any," he said.

So Ulfric helped himself to some stew. As he ate, though, he was barely focused on the food. All he could think about was his dream. It filled him with a deep longing to see his loving father again. But he knew that would not happen until he was dead, and with the blessing of the Nine that would not be for years. His eldest son was a good man, in just about all ways, but he was inexperienced in warfare and governing. And he had two others, each of whom was ambitious. What would he do with them? And he had held out on retaking Solstheim for the Storm-Blades for half a decade. It would seem that he had little time and much to do. "Knights," he said to his men. They turned quickly, including Chella. "Today we ride twenty leagues, and we shall go to Ivarstead." A few looked at him quizzically. "But my lord," said Robert Lann, "would that not be more than three leagues out of our way?" Ulfric nodded to this. He walked to his horse, leaving Chella to pick up his bowl and bedroll, and mounted the stallion. "Today we ride for Ivarstead, and I will take no objections. Now come, my knights, we have much land to cover. To the Reach!" he shouted as he spurred his horse forward. Chella had just enough time to attach the bedroll to her own courser and mount up before the knights all mounted their horses and began riding.

The mountains of the Reach stood in the distance, frowning at them with storm clouds as they approached. And as they passed through the outpost of Westmarch Pass, people stared at them. A few riders joined in, possibly for the thrill of riding with the Lord of the Eastern marches or maybe because they had heard of the fall of Markarth. But it did not matter, for the more riders that joined him, the easier his mission would be. They passed many knights and freeriders along the way, all of whom were probably going to the defense of Karthwasten or gathering at some local lordling's keep. But they all joined in. William Free-Winter had raised his Stormcloak banner, the bear shining proudly on the blue field. Ulfric was filled with a grand enthusiasm, and as he rode over a hill with the sun setting in his face, Ivarstead appeared on the horizon. This was the beginning of a new age, and he knew.


	4. The Bear's Bastard

_**Aloeseth Free-born**_

Very seldom was Aloeseth proud to be a bastard. But now was one of the occasional times his pride would surface. "Here, this is to be your banner. Choose your bannerman wisely, for he will decide the public opinion of your… _clan,"_ said Earl Ainethach of Karthwasten. Clan… the word seemed to hang in his mind. It was hardly a clan he'd be leading, since few of the men within it were his relatives. He was just representing the bastards of the town. And even though the faction was simply being established to raise Karthwasten's headcount, he still felt a sense of pride. Suddenly, a soldier entered looking relived and sweaty. Aloeseth assumed this meant they had thought something had gone wrong only to find that it was either nothing or good news. "My lord," he said. Ainethach turned and raised an eyebrow. They had been standing in the Earl's small keep when the man came in. "I think you should come outside," he said.

As they exited the longhouse and walked into the night, Aloeseth was filled with a wonder. How had he, a boy of fifteen, been chosen to lead the bastard of Karthwasten? Only a hundred strong they might have been, but it was still a hundred men being entrusted to someone scarce more than a boy. But he had to remember that Earl Ainethach had been fostering him since he was younger. He did not have much time to speculate, though, for the soldier led them to the center of the town, where some proud-looking, brown-haired lord was dismounting. As he turned and approached them, Aloeseth noticed his own appearance and the banner behind him (as well as the eighty or so riders). The man's icy blue eyes and heavy cloaks betrayed the appearance of a man of the North. And behind him the man's tall banner (standing over about two shorter Reach-lord banners), bearing the pure white Bear of Windhelm. Aloeseth had been taught many of the Reach and major Skyrim banners, and those of Windhelm and the North always fascinated him.

Once again, though, he was pulled out of his thought by the town's visitors. "I see you have been hard at work, Lord Ainethach," said the Northron man. Aloeseth wondered if it could really be him, Ulfric Stormcloak, the man rumored to be his lord father. "Aye, but I had no choice. Word has come of a massive Forsworn host coming this way. They call it ten thousand strong, Ulfric," replied. _It is him…_ thought Aloeseth. Ulfric sighed. "Aye, I heard tell of everything earlier today before I arrived here with these hundred cavalry. I had to turn back and make several stops before finally coming here, gaining oaths from the Reach lords for reinforcements in two days at the latest. Lord Halfdan came with me, and his sons stayed behind to gather more men. I expect four thousand men," he said. Then he turned to Aloeseth. "And I suspect that this is him?" he said. Aloeseth blushed a bit. "Aye, your bastard from the Great War," said the Earl. Aloeseth blushed even more. His peers whispered behind him. _Then it's true… I am Ulfric Stormcloak's bastard._

Ulfric sighed. "You're sprinkling salt in an old wound, Anny. Inappropriate, especially since I rallied every nearby lord for you in such a short time," he said curtly. "And I fostered your son to preserve your wife's honor, Ulf. Do not forget that," he replied in an equally cold tone. Aloeseth bowed awkwardly. "It is… an honor to meet you, Lord Stormcloak." The proud lord chuckled. "Well, I see you've done well teaching him manners," Stormcloak laughed. Ainethach nodded once again. "Now, how long did you say before my reinforcements arrive, Ulfric? Two days?" he asked. The greater lord gave a short nod. "I also said I expect four thousand men. There'd be more, but they're being rushed by the oaths they made. How long until the Forsworn arrive?" he finished, breath showing in the frost as he spoke. "My outriders claim that they are six days' march, by normal standards. But they're the Forsworn and quick on their feet. I expect them in half that time." Ulfric shook his head. "The native peoples may be united by a common cause, but it's an unstable alliance. They will debate on which rout to take and commonly argue how long to march. I would say they should be here in four days." At this, Ainethach beckoned to his former friend. "Very good; that gives me time to build a few engines to assist in the defense of the city," he sighed with relief. It seemed as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "Aloeseth, go arm your bastards and come back to me. I expect you by noon tomorrow in my Longhouse."

He had worked through the night and past much of the morning getting his men ready with their specific weapons. He sped along the equipping through trial and error; he gave them all swords and the ones who failed (about sixty of them) lost their swords and moved on to bows. The bastards who could not fire an arrow properly lost their bows and received long spears (each about nine feet long); the last ones (about ten men) were given pikes, and all of them were able to properly weild those. It was not perfect, but it allowed him to finish 'arming his bastards,' as Ainethach had told him to do. By noon he had already gotten to the Longhouse. His Earl came to see the work himself. "I see my lessons about arming men paid off. I knew they would. Good work, Free-born," he said. Aloeseth was filled with pride. But he still felt awkward around Ulfric. After years of hearing rumors of him being the son of that man, it was strange to be around him. Despite the awkwardness, he still felt a deep sense of pride when Ulfric nodded his approval.

It was strange feeling to see his father… and a father whose appearance was different in several aspects. Ulfric had a long nose, Aloeseth a shorter one, though both shared a rounded tip. Ulfric's hair was a deep brown, while Aloeseth's was a dirty blonde. They shared the same color of eyes and eyebrows (a dark black), but Ulfric was slightly short and muscled and broad-shouldered for his age, while Aloeseth was notably tall and slim (a "perfect swordsman" by Ainethach's standards.) Despite these differences, he could tell they had the dame air about them; both gave off a light-herated sense, but it was rooted in a serious and cunning character.

"That's enough praise for now. Ulfric, I would ask you to help Aloeseth train these men. They have stout hearts, but little skill. An experienced lord like you training them would increase their chances in battle considerably," Ainethach instructed. Ulfric nodded and turned away towards the bastards. Aloeseth watched in wonder as the fatherless adolescents and adults stopped what they were doing when the lord of Windhelm approached. He watched in awe as Ulfric chose a single man and showed him a proper stance, other swordsmen watching in wonder or emulating the balanced battle stance. "Boy, before you join him in training those bastards, I have a special letter for you that arrived today. You may find it…" he faltered a moment. "Bah, just follow me. It is something I've expected ever since the incident in the mountains a week ago." Aloeseth obeyed the Earl, following with wonder and curiosity, though the mention of the incident in the mountains sent a chill down his spine. It was not a memory he was fond of. He did not know how he sent the bandits off the cliff, he just…. _Did _it. All he knew was that something came from his mouth when he expected a curse. But he knew that it was not normal, and he knew it was a grave omen. As he followed Ainethach, his ideas became wilder and wilder until he tried to focus on the snow. It was white and pure, as befitted the white Reach. Soon, though, it would be red with blood.


End file.
